


History of Klance

by RachelleFaucet



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Bisexual Lance (Voltron), Gay Keith (Voltron), M/M, One Shot, Short & Sweet, Short One Shot, klance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2019-05-21 10:50:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14913989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RachelleFaucet/pseuds/RachelleFaucet
Summary: A series of four vastly different Klance short stories.Red Bouquet: Lance becomes jealous over a bundle of red flowers.Man by the Beach: A mysterious man standing by the beach catches Lance's eye, but he can't grasp why.Imagine in the Shower: Lance begins to have visions as he becomes increasingly home sick, but of who?Party to Remember: The night Keith and Lance agree to reveal their secret relationship doesn't go the way they were intending.





	History of Klance

RED BOUQUET:

 

After the show, Keith and Lance are alone and changing out of their Paladin armor when a rosy-cheek, alien girl sheepishly approaches them.

"You were amazing," the girl blushes, a bouquet tucked beneath her slender arm.

Lance smirks and squares his shoulders, "why, tha—"

The alien offers Keith the array of spotted, red flowers, "you were magnificent, Black Paladin. I couldn't help but watch you the entire show."

"Th— thank you," Keith mutters, accepting his gift.

The girl's smile brightens. With one last diffident wave, she darts out the room, smoke steaming from her ears. Lance notices Keith's cheeks turn red as his armor when he eyes the bouquet. Lance sneers at the flowers then at him.

"She must've gotten you confused with me. Those flowers are clearly red, which means they're meant for the Red Paladin of Voltron."

"Jealous much," Keith rolls his eyes and turns the other way.

"What? I'm not jealous. You're the one who's jealous," Lance snaps, slamming his boot rough against the cold, tile floor.

"Why would I be jealous?"

"Just— just hand them over."

Lance moves for the flowers, but Keith pulls them from his reach. "Enjoy the gifts from your own fans."

"I do have fans. More fans than you."

"I never said that wasn't the case."

Lance leaps for the flowers, and Keith, again, keeps them from his grasp.

Lance pouts, thin eyebrows furrowed. He tries again for the bouquet, holding Keith in place by his wrist.

"Give them," Lance whines.

"No way," Keith retaliates, pushing Lance away.

And like that, the two Paladins — supposed protectors of the universe — wrestle over red, polka-dotted flowers. They shove each other's shoulders. They kick at one another's ankles. Body against body, hands yanking hair and fabric. At one point, the two boy's hands are around the stem of the bouquet, Lance's fingers overlapping Keith's stone-cold grip.

Lance stares at Keith as his pulse kicks into overdrive. Has Keith's skin always been this pale? Like a field of fresh snow at morning's rise. Has his nose always curved up in such a way? Has Lance ever bothered to notice? Or has he been preoccupied within Keith's eyes? Grayish purple, hard like steel. Or his hair. Imperfect yet just the right amount of perfect.

Keith charges Lance, sending them both tumbling to the ground. Lance hits his back hard, which hurts all the worse when Keith's heavy body lands on top of him.

"Ow," Lance mutters as Keith scrambles to prop himself up.

The two boy's legs are entangled, Keith's hands on either side of Lance's shoulders, their faces moments apart. Lance feels Keith's warm breath against his cheek, which makes him a cluster-fuck of excited and scared.

"I'm sorry, I—"

Lance reaches up, weaves his fingers through the pitch-black strands of Keith's hair, and pulls him in for a kiss. Why? He isn't sure. But he does, and Keith kisses him back, and it's beyond wonderful.

But every moment, no matter the grandness, ends inevitably.

Keith pulls away and stumbles to his feet. With a heavy breath and wide eyes, he says, "fine. If you want them so bad, keep them,"

Keith, ears red and shoulders stiff, exits slowly. Too slowly. All the while, Lance is waiting — praying — for Keith to turn and leap back into his expecting arms. But even a dreamer's luck has its limit.

When Keith disappears from sight, Lance groans and rubs his throbbing head and neck. He looks at the spotty flowers which lay motionless beside him.

After a moment of deafening silence, he shouts, "Dammit."

 

———

 

MAN BY THE BEACH:

 

There are five things you need to know about the man by the beach.

First, his stance. The way his back leans lazily against the cobblestone fence, his shoulders turned to the sea's horizon. How his left arm relaxes on the surface of the short, grey wall as his blushed knuckles contract and loosen in a sort of hipnic dance. His other hand holds his phone in a tight grip, as though it contains all his world's secrets with the press of a button. His opposite leg bends idly as the other keeps him upright. All this couples with this nonchalant atmosphere that seems to radiate from him. This alone irritates Lance to an unwavering extent.

Second, his clothes. Red and black, a contrast from the man's ghostly skin and the pure whites of his eyes. He wears a heavy hoodie which is much too big for him. The red, faded fabric of its sleeve stops in the center of his palm, allowing only his fingers to breath the fresh, seaside air. His pants — not bothering to matching the rest of his attire — are sweats. Black with a red stripe going down either side. It's like the man yanked on whatever his touch landed upon first and said, "eh, good enough," not giving a damn what others had to think or say. Lance envies this, though he will never admit it.

Third, his phone. Held in his right hand, it has a black, plastic case. Lance nearly barfs at its simplicity. And the phone's model, though hard to see from afar, is likely an Android. Again, Lance practically barfs from this fact alone. The phone has a cord coming from it, looping down then back around to his ears, the ends hidden in his mess of hair. On the end of the cord is scotch tape. To hold it together, maybe, or perhaps it's some vain attempt to make it last longer. Either way, Lance finds it tacky.

Fourth, the man's, long, black, stupid mullet. This one needs no explanation. All that matters is how lame and outdated the hairstyle is. Not how the jet black strands seem to softly dance alongside the sea breeze. Not how the man's hair is tangled to an unfathomable extent, yet remains breathtaking as it twists and turns like an art piece. And definitely not how the man's bangs swoop in front of his eyes, casting an alluring shadow across his face. Because a mullet is irredeemable in any shape, no matter how hypnotically it sways.

Fifth, his expression. Wide eyes looking out and up.

Where are they looking?

Pink lips curved ever downward.

Why must they be so anxious?

This is what causes Lance to stare. This is what causes Lance's brain to haywire. Where is this man looking? What is this man thinking? And, most importantly, who gave him the right to look so simultaneously calm yet tense? To be so terribly unkempt yet sexy?

Who is this man?

That's when the man by the beach turns his head. It takes Lance a moment to realize that the man has met his stare, a question on his brow. Lance feels a pulse in his wrist, startled by the sudden heat.

"Hey, you," the man calls, "you need something?"

"I, uh," Lance stutters as the man approaches. His eyes wander to his worn tennis shoes, then to the paved walkway, then to the man's phone that is now held limply at his side, "I need to use your phone."

The man pauses, then nods slowly, "Okay. You stared at me for minutes because you wanted to borrow my phone?"

Lance clicks his tongue, "should've noticed me sooner."

He then turns his palm up and the man places his phone in it. It feels warm and heavy against Lance's sun-kissed skin.

Lance unlocks the phone — no password, how naive — and inspects the screensaver. A campfire. What? Is this guy some sort of hippie?

Lastly, Lance opens the phone app and dials a number. Putting the cool screen to his ear, he waits for only a moment before he feels a vibration.

"Oh, silly me," Lance pulls his own phone from his back pocket, "it was right here the entire time."

The man tilts his head, his hair shifting with him.

"What's your name?" Lance asks.

"Keith," the man relies, "what's yours?"

"The name's Lance," Lance smirks, takes Keith's hand, and presses the phone in his palm, "now we aren't strangers. So, don't go ignoring me when I call you later."

Keith looks down at where Lance is holding his hand, "why would yo—"

"Someone has to fix that mullet of yours," Lance releases his hold and circles sharply around.

The man by the beach has no time to respond before Lance saunters off, his cherry-red cheeks hidden from view.

 

———

 

IMAGINE IN THE SHOWER:

 

There's this bad habit I've grown accustomed to.

I'm one of those odd folk who proudly sings in the shower. If you know me, this is no surprise. Out of the people in my long family lineage, you could say I'm the most 'eccentric' of the bunch. During family reunions, I was the first to volunteer for a song. My eight-year-old fingers would struggle to form the cords on my papa's guitar as I sang some melody I loved but couldn't recall today if I tried. Furthermore, in school before I joined the garrison, I was the star of every play performed and production broadcasted. Some people laughed at me. Others called me a pansy. But the loud majority absolutely adored me. They clapped, applauded, cheered my name. And I bowed back at them.

But, recently, I can't sing. Not even in the shower. I watch the water spout from the shower head and nail my chest like millions of narrow bullets. The scorching-hot water snakes down my tan skin, across my skinny arms, against my naked hips, all the way to my blistered feet.

I think of nothing. Just stare at the whirring drain.

I want something to think about, but I can't seem to find the thought.

That's when Keith comes to mind. It's a strange, new sensation as I picture Keith's face. The curve of his nose. The point of his jaw. The narrowness of his eyes, mysterious behind his long, tangled bangs.

I can't tell you why 'he' specifically came front and center. The human mind is a vast string of pictures, words, and emotion the universe has yet to completely dissect. No one can say why things happen the way they do. Thoughts shape the fabric of reality, strumming the chords of cause and effect every moment of life.

Nevertheless, that's who I think about. For the rest of my shower, I see Keith, his grim expression dower and unchanging.

After I'm cleaned, I get into bed and lay there naked and silent.

The next morning at breakfast, Keith is the first I notice. Not because he is the only one present — Shiro, Hunk, and Pidge are gathered around the table too — but because his face intrigues me. The image I projected yesterday was only a shell. It was disorienting to say the least when I caught sight of Keith's true form. The contrast of his colors. The texture of his skin. It was all so familiar yet so new.

When Keith catches me staring, he raises an eyebrow. "Lance, are you okay?"

"Just thinking," I respond and leave it at that.

That afternoon, a more vivid picture makes its way to my thoughts. Then again the next day. Then the next. Until staring at Keith's every detail becomes a habit. Until I know Keith's face better than my own. Each time, Keith becomes more motile and lively. The head grows a torso. Then from that sprouts arms, and soon Keith's entire body is present. Even under the shower head, he's fully clothed in his red jacket and fingerless gloves.

About a week into this endeavor, the image of Keith appears behind me and lays a hand flat against my back. This startles me to such an extent, I nearly scream.

Then Keith's arms wrap around my shoulders, and I melt into him. He feels safe and warm. Like my father's cooking or my mother's hugs.

The contact is far from real, but is there anything wrong with imagining?

When I tuck myself under the covers that night, I can't close my eyes. I need to feel that warmth again. To be one in the same with the thought which I can't seem to pull from my conciseness.

So I go to Keith's room.

I knock on the door and poke my head inside. Keith stirs as I approach the bed with soft footsteps.

"Lance, what are you—"

"Couldn't sleep. Can I..." I mutter, drawing circles in the palm of my hand.

Keith says nothing, and I can't read his expression in the dim light. Eventually though, he sighs and pulls the sheet back to make room for me.

I smile and get in beside him. Wrapping my arm across his chest, I lay my head on his shoulder in substitute for a pillow. I close my eyes and whisper, "thank you."

Keith doesn't respond, but he doesn't need to. I feel his rapid heartbeat as he gradually relaxes under my weight.

I can feel the warmth again, and it's better than the image in the shower. I hook my leg with his and nuzzle my head against his chest. Soon, I'm asleep.

 

———

 

PARTY TO REMEMBER:

 

My boyfriend is oblivious when it comes to any sort of normal human interaction. This fact is especially present in traditionally social environments.

A party for instance.

It's been a week after I finally confessed to Keith and we started dating. Having not yet told our friends, we decide to reveal it after Shiro's bad-ass house party. You know, while he kicks everyone out and has to deal with our drunk asses.

But the evening doesn't quite go to plan.

During the party, I want to hold Keith's hand. Oh, how desperately I want it. I want us to dance together, hips swaying in unison as the groovy song jumpstarts our young hearts. But we agreed to keep a low profile until the end of the night, so I — being the obedient soul I am — obliged.

Still, I want to dance. But I can't do it alone. I'm weird in that way; shy while by myself, yet bold when with friends or strangers. So I get on the dance floor, aka: Shiro's living room carpet, and scan for a competent partner.

That's when I spot the tall lady. I call her that because, well, what else is there to describe her by? A gorgeous woman, about 6'3 alone and 6'6 in her striking, purple heels, who moves as if the world is watching. Her thick, elegant curls sway to and fro as her shoulders gyrate to the beat.

I stare, mouth agape, for heaven knows how long before she finally notices and pulls me in with a wink and flick of the finger. My eyes dart to the floor as my hand gently rubs the crook of my neck. She wants me to dance with her even though I have no chance of matching her ability. Despite my hesitation, I swallow my pride and make the voyage to her side.

We exchange no pleasantries, only nod in conformation of our silent transaction. The song picks up as I begin to dance. The girl smirks and flips her hair. Time passes and our bodies gradually move closer and closer until we are nearly touching. That's when I hear my name.

I have only a split second to process before I feel someone tackle me from behind. The girl moves out of the way as me and Keith collapse to the ground, Keith's heavy body slamming against my feeble limbs.

All talking ceases. Only the radio is left to fill the eerie silence as all attention turns to me and Keith. From behind a cluster of people on the dance floor, I can see Shiro, his mouth agape.

Keith lifts himself off me, my legs straddled between his and my shoulders pinned by his hands.

"Keith? What are you—"

"Who is that girl?" Keith demands.

I look at him blankly for a moment, then begin to chuckle.

Keith's eyes widen as the realization of what he'd done sinks in. "Lance, I'm so sorry, I... are you crying?"

I snort, weeping tears of joy. "Keith, you're too cute," I manage between my loud outbursts of laughter, "Did you get jealous over me?"

"I... I saw you two together and I couldn't help myself," Keith hangs his head, his ears as red as his jacket.

"Keith, I'll always be yours and you'll always be mine. There's nothing and nobody that can change that."

That's when I lift my head, filling the gap between my face and his, and planting a kiss on his lips. I hear aweing and giggling all around us as I struggle to kiss through my grin.

When me and Keith part, I look up at the woman who's fingers drag through her hair. When she meets my eye, she smiles and lets out a chuckle. "That's one hell of a boyfriend you got there, babe. Do yourself a favor and don't lose him."

"Holy shit!" A high pitched yell comes from behind, "I fucking knew it! Hunk, Shiro, I told you guys!"

Me and Keith look back at Pidge and glare. Were we really that obvious? Hunk, Shiro, and Allura join Pidge at her side, sinister grins plastered to each one of their faces.

I look back at Keith and softly pinch his shoulder to grab his attention. His focus shoots back to me, his face now enveloped in a deep crimson. "I guess that's one way to come out," I joke, tucking one of Keith's loose strands of hair behind his ear.

Keith lets his cheek rest against my hand, heaving a deep sigh, "At least this'll be a party to remember."

 

**Author's Note:**

> (A/N): First and foremost, hello reader! Thanks for taking interest in my work. And, for those who've read my previous works — most likely Our Strange Differences — I'm not dead!
> 
> I'm only taking a break from fanfic for a little while to focus on my Episode story: "Three Weeks From Now". 
> 
> If you don't know what Episode is... it's an app. I can't explain it very well, so I recommend just downloading it from the AppStore. 
> 
> So, yes, I'm writing/directing an Episode story now. It's not yet out, so I recommend following me on Instagram if you want updates on that. There, you can also see the Episode reviews I do. 
> 
> About my story:
> 
> Here's the premise: 
> 
> One boy is in love with his best friend. The other is a pathological liar. What happens when one is dared to ask out the other? 
> 
> I'm really proud of it so far, and I hope you can be patient as I finish it up. 
> 
> Because of it, however, I won't be able to post many new stories. I may occasionally write something short for my followers, but nothing extravagant.
> 
> That's all I have to say. Have a great life and DM me any time you have a question or want to chat. 
> 
> INSTAGRAM: @the_rachelle_faucet


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